


I Might Like You Better, If We Slept Together

by carnography (orphan_account)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/carnography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, Sean," she says quietly, almost as if she's talking to herself, "Look at you."</p><p>(Pre-Series, Blind Date fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Might Like You Better, If We Slept Together

They don’t even make it out of the frakking parking lot.

Sean’s sedan is huddled in the back corner and the streetlights are dim and bleary, the rain dying down to a drizzle. It’s quiet back here, the constant symphony of inner-city traffic sounding strangely distant and the beating of his heart loud in his ears.

“You want to get the check?” she had asked after an evening of suggestive glances and subtle flirtation, her voice low and buttery. Sounding so casual and so dismissive as she adjusted her knife on the tablecloth.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispered, “Yeah, I want to get the check.”

“Good. Me too."

And in a flurry of activity once they had reached the car, the two of them ended up in the backseat. Hidden from the world by a thin layer of tinted glass. She laughed when they tumbled inside and scrambled across the seat. He grinned when he shut the door behind her, when he locked it and pulled her on top of him, skirt bunching at her waist–-their faces close, her perfume like shorn lavender and her breath warm with Leonis wine. He kissed her—dug his hands into her naked thighs. Her knees locked into his torso, pushing down on the leather, and he took satisfaction in knowing that she wanted this just as bad as he did.

Now, it was all heavy breathing—labored, hot—and the pitter/patter of rain on the car roof. It’s dark and she’s perfect and she kisses him with a languid frenzy that makes his fingers twitch against her skin, his nerve endings thrumming with the slide of her tongue and the way she moves against him like she’s hard liquor.

Sweat prickles all over his body and their breath mingles, eyes meeting every now and then through the dark. She nips his bottom lip, and smiles when he’s the first to moan. His hands are bruising her hips as if she’s a frakking lifeline, as if she’ll disintegrate like a fantasy if he doesn’t hold on. And by the way she’s looking at him, he can tell she likes being tangible.

“I haven’t made out like this in so frakking long,” he admits, sucking on her neck, kneading her firm ass. His lust-addled brain is too preoccupied to block his thoughts from his mouth, and he pulls back with an embarrassed grin and earnest eyes.

Laura doesn’t respond; she hums, rich and low, and plants another kiss on his mouth. She sounds like he’s scratching some sort of an itch or working out a tough knot and it turns him on so much that when he feels her kiss deepen and her hand cradle the bulge in his trousers…

He breaks away from her, his head slumping back against the cushions. His mouth falls slack as she fondles him—her fingers bold. “Gods. Yeah. Frak.”

With a firm upward sweep of her palm, she leans back and gives him time to recover. Her ass is resting on his thighs, her smile is practically radiant, and it’s really hard to concentrate on steadying his urges when her breathing is so labored that her breasts are practically spilling out of her dress. Like at a costume party—except there’s the seedy, orange glow of parking lot lights and her hair is sort of messed and she looks at him with a singular intent that has nothing to do with royal ballrooms or orchestrated waltzes. Silver masks or crazy feathers.

This is heavy on bass.

He licks his lips, bracing himself as he huffs out a breath. “Gods, you’re so sexy.”

There’s Laura’s charming titter of laughter and she looks at him as if he’s still a silly, lovesick boy. Her eyes are bright and she looks frakking beautiful. Her hand is still hot against his dick and all he wants to do is show her that he’s not a boy anymore.

He’s a man. And he wants her. At this point, he wants her so bad that it’s taking a lot of self-control not to toss her down on the seat and fuck her until she can’t see straight.

Laura’s tugging at his suit jacket and he strips it off, tossing it aside. And the anticipation of where this has to go—that she’s gonna have to slip out of that frakking dress—makes his fingers shake as he quickly pulls off his tie and opens the first couple of buttons on his shirt. She bats his hands away and begins to undress him herself. His chest is rising and falling, rising and falling, as she slowly slips each one of his buttons from its hole. Her fingernails scrape against his skin every now and then—lightly, very lightly—and it makes him squirm. One by one, she peels apart his shirt until she’s all the way down to his belt buckle and she sweeps the remaining fabric aside.

They lock eyes and there is a steady drum of rain on the roof. She unclasps his buckle with a metal click. It curls around his waist as she pulls, and it lands with a heavy clunk on the car floor. And then she just stares down at him, taking everything in. It makes him a little self-conscious until she sighs, short and high-pitched. It sounds like a cross between regret and defeat. Weakness, maybe. A weakness for him. His smile is boyish, but he can’t help it.

Laura drags her nails down his bronzed chest, hands spreading against him as if he’s made of clay. “Oh, Sean,” she says quietly, almost as if she’s talking to herself, “Look at you.”

Suddenly, she slams her mouth to his and his heart beats frantically against his rib cage when he feels the tops of her breasts graze his chest and her fingernails digging into his sides and the humid feel of her panties against his clothed thigh. He groans into her mouth and grabs her ass, grinding her into his leg. He frakking wants to feel it so bad. Gods, it feels so good. He wants her to rub against him like she’s a cat in heat, purring and moaning. Her whimper tickles his ear and her teeth snag onto the lobe. Her hands grip the waist of his trousers, fingers curling beneath—using his waistband as an anchor while her hips move against his leg.

And then his fly is undone.

“Mmm, I just want to suck you dry,” she murmurs in his ear, and there’s an edge to her voice that makes him groan.

“Frak,” is all he can breathe, hips jerking forward. Frak. He’s so hard—his cock is throbbing like he’s a sheltered, virginal kid. Like he’s back in his dorm room, freshman year, fantasizing about shoving his pretty professor up against the blackboard and giving it to her like he’s Zeus himself.

“I need this off,” he mutters, feeling down the zipper of her dress. “I want this off. I need this frakking off.”

Laura grins, a grin that reminds him of curling sparklers on Colonial Day. Blazing a white-hot flower into the night, so it will smile back at you. So bright it’s there behind your eyes long after it’s gone. She reaches with both hands behind her back, breasts pushed forward as the sound of her zipper makes it over the rain.

He gazes at her, his breath held. And she looks away from him—as if she’s suddenly shy—and drops her head. Her hair almost hides her face.

His trembling hand feels around the round curve of her waist, glides up her back until he covers her stalled hand.

“Sean…” she whispers on a stalled breath, about to say something that would stop this until he meets her eyes and whatever it was (a gentle rebuff, a hushed apology, a sudden rush of guilt or shame) withdraws back into her head and stays there. He releases her fingers and she raises them above her head, spreading them against the roof of the car, nails thatching into the fabric with the rushed cadence of her breath.

The zipper ends at the small of her back. Her skin is warm, soft. His fingers dally up the valley of her spine. He takes that dress and he pulls it down.

Those plump breasts are trapped in a plum-colored bra and her skin looks near ivory in this light. A delicate navel, elegant hips…and he stares at those legs as she maneuvers out of the dress and tosses it to the ground. Sean shifts forward suddenly and she grips the headrests behind her. He pulls her toward him--her body curving like a cocked bow--and kisses those gorgeous tits. Licking the swell of one, relishing the feel of her breast pushing into his mouth with each shallow inhalation. One of her hands weaves into his hair, the other braced in surrender on the car roof. He looks up and her eyes are closed, forehead resting against her raised arm. Her mouth is almost open, and she sighs.

“Gods,” he says, near awed, “You’re so …”

Sean doesn’t finish. He leans back and takes her with him, her hands holding his sides as he presses her close. He can feel her (hot and wet) against his hard-on and he moans, low. So low it sounds close to a growl. He kisses her and fumbles with the clasp of her bra before she suddenly tears her face away from his and grips his hand to make him stop.

Like an alert doe, Laura sits up and stiffens—listening.

“Laura …”

“Shh.”

There are muffled voices nearing the car. Two pairs of feet pounding against the asphalt. These two must be the owners of the (really nice) coup parked beside him.

They’re still, watching the silhouetted forms moving outside the tinted windows. There’s the jingle of the man’s keys, the superficial laughter of his date. They’re probably going back to his apartment. They’ll probably have enough self-restraint.

Sean smiles and ignores Laura’s lingering attention on the two, and nibbles on a nipple through her bra. She gasps and quickly looks back at him, a smile unfurling across her face.

The engine starts next to them and the wheels grind against the wet pavement. The headlights are bright for a moment before it is dark again.

“This is insane,” she says.

“I know,” Sean replies, his voice mischievous, “I like it.”

Laura laughs, a smile dissolving into a wicked smirk. “I can tell.”

He grunts. “I want to frak you until you can’t remember who you are,” he confesses on a desperate whisper, a broad smile on his face. She’s still holding onto his hand at her back and Sean grates his teeth along the lace of her bra. Her skin is soft against his gliding lips.

“Mmm. I want that,” she replies, looking toward the roof with a small smile and a defeated hum. “I want that…”

His grin widens and he feels almost giddy. A finger curls around the edge of her underwear and pulls.

Laura stops him with a look. “Not here,” she says quietly.

“Why not?” he asks, a little impatient and more than a little starving.

She shifts against him—purposely—and the pressure is almost enough to finish him. Laura smiles that pretty smile.

“Because,” she begins. Very practical. Words measured. “For our first time, I need you to pin me to a bed with those arms of yours and nail me harder than either of us…has ever had."

Laura tilts her head and smirks. “Okay, Sean?”

He swallows, nods dumbly—dutifully ignoring the pulse of his dick. The mounting urgency.

He’s ignoring a little voice in the back of his head, warning him that she’s wearing a mask. That there’s something she’s hiding.

But he’s wanted this for so long that he says “yeah” with a big smile. He says, “Yeah. Okay.”

“My place?”

“Yours?”

Laura plants her hands on his shoulders, and it’s all orchestrated waltzes and crazy feathers when she kisses him and replies, “Yes. I want you. At my disposal.”

And he's such a silly, lovesick man that he’s looking forward to it.


End file.
